High Country Homestead with Susan H Shaw
It's hard to believe this article was written several weeks ago. At the time I was convinced the lurgy would surely be packing its bags and moving on any day now. As it turns out, it was a far more determined house guest than either of us anticipated. The good news is that I am finally beginning to feel a little more like myself again, although recovery has been slower than I would have liked.
Life on the homestead, of course, hasn't paused for a moment. In the weeks since this article went to print we've had plenty of rain, accidentally lost around 20,000 litres of precious tank water thanks to an unfortunate combination of a cow, a hoof and a leak (which is definitely a story for another day), and on a much happier note, my YouTube channel was finally monetised. That last one was a milestone I've been working towards for a long time, so it was rather exciting to see all those hours of filming, editing and storytelling finally pay off. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little tale from the height of winter and my ongoing battle with an exceptionally stubborn lurgy.
Normally I'm a fairly healthy sort. Like most of us, I collect the occasional pulled muscle, mysterious bruise or aching back as part of everyday life. You simply rub a bit of dirt on it (figuratively speaking), carry on and hope it feels better tomorrow. But actually being properly sick? That's a bit of a novelty around here.
Unfortunately, over the past few weeks, some particularly enthusiastic winter lurgy decided to pay me a visit. It arrived uninvited, unpacked its bags and made itself right at home. There were days when, once the morning chores were done, I found myself dozing beside the log burner... during the day! I know. Shocking behaviour.
Of course, the farm couldn't have cared less.
The sheep certainly weren't interested. Our little flock of black Suffolks gathered at the gate each morning wearing the sort of expression usually reserved for restaurant customers whose breakfast order has gone missing.
The cattle weren't much better. They appear to have perfected that slow, steady stare that somehow manages to convey both disappointment and anticipation. I’m quite sure they know exactly what time breakfast is supposed to arrive, despite never having owned a wrist watch.
The chickens simply carried on with their usual daily routine of making a tremendous fuss about absolutely everything. It doesn't really matter whether you're feeling fantastic or barely upright; chickens firmly believe every day should begin with maximum commotion.
Thankfully, my young daughter quietly picked up much of the slack. Animals were fed, firewood was split and carted inside, and many of those countless little jobs that somehow appear every single day, were simply taken care of without fuss. It's one of those moments that reminds you the next generation has been paying more attention than you realised.
It's one of the things I love most about living in a rural community. When illness or injury gets in the way, people simply get on with helping. They don't make a fuss about it or keep score; they just lend a hand until you're back on your feet again. One day it'll be you accepting the help, and the next it'll be your turn to return the favour. That's just how these communities work.
The household pets, however, had a rather different approach to patient care. And their methods while somewhat less practical, were no less appreciated. It didn't take the cats long to discover there was now a warm lap available for much of the day, and I have to admit, I was just as grateful for their company as they were for the extra warmth.
Jespar, our thirteen week old enthusiastic young puppy, interpreted my spending more time indoors as the greatest gift imaginable. Every time I settled down beside the fire with a hot drink, he would appear with a toy, a stick, a half eaten sock or occasionally something I was fairly certain wasn't supposed to be in the house at all.
The log burner in the lounge has become my favourite place in the house these past couple of weeks. Unfortunately, that's not the only fire that needs attention. The wood stove in the kitchen has continued to demand feeding as well.
Unlike those modern contraptions that spring into life with the flick of a switch, the wood stove expects regular feeding also, if it goes out, there’s no hot water. The kettle becomes rather pointless, dinner becomes considerably more complicated, and the house quickly begins reminding you that it is, in fact, winter.
So every so often I'd haul myself off the couch, wander over with another armful of firewood and feed yet another hungry mouth. When you think about it, the fires fit in rather well with the rest of the farm. Between the sheep, cattle, chickens, cats, a puppy, log burner and wood stove, there seemed to be a remarkable number of things depending on me, despite my body's very clear preference for another nap.
There isn't much room for self-importance on a farm. One person's miserable week barely registers against the steady rhythm of everyday life. The seasons keep turning, the days keep arriving, and before long you're back doing what you always do.
The lurgy is still hanging around like an unwelcome house guest. I'm permanently cold, and I'm developing quite an appreciation for the heating qualities of a sleeping cat. The sheep have forgiven my temporary lack of efficiency, the cattle never really noticed, and the chickens remain gloriously chaotic.
So while I'm not quite firing on all cylinders just yet, my afternoon naps get shorter and less frequent every day. And, I'd call that progress...!